Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Physical Therapy: The Challenges of Counting and Compliance

I've been going to physical therapy twice a week for the past 3 months.  On average, each visit lasts about 2.5 hours.  Yes, that is 2.5 hours.  I've been through a lot of physical therapy over the years:  knees at 16, 17, etc; back starting in 2007, and then this surgery.  When I tell you I think these guys are the very best physical therapy team, I'm not kidding.  

I typically go in the mornings when its a bit more quiet and there are fewer distractions.  Most of my colleagues are well into retirement and are nursing fixed broken hips, replaced shoulders, total knee replacements, etc..  There are a lot of characters.  Today I sat next to Chuck, a big African American guy with white hair and an AC/DC tee-shirt.  He was doing his exercises while singing along to the radio:  U2, Midnight Oil, and yes, even the B-52's.  He even knew all the lyrics and did some solo air drums in between sets.  I was amused.

When my physical therapist was stretching me out I started a new conversation thread asking him what the most difficult part of his job was.  He said it was those patients that want to legislate the program he designs for them.  For example, someone is referred because of hip and back pain but refuses to do the exercises because it hurts.  Or, another extreme would be someone who keeps pestering him for new exercises, harder drills, or excessive sets.  It was almost on cue when Pat showed up at the door.

Pat, a 65+ year old female with a thick Boston accent, came in on crutches and immediately began talking about the games last night.  How if her hips were better she would have gone out to shoot the pitcher of the Red Sox because it was pitiful to see how he missed whatever x-y-z play.  She then announced that she decided to not do the "clam shell" exercises at home yesterday because she was sore.  Pete, my P.T., asked how she was sore and how many she did.

"Oh, abouht 75."

I couldn't help but bust out laughing in the middle of my painful hip flexor stretch.  75?!?  Is this woman mad?  

"Paht, we told you 3 sehts of 10.  That shoulda been thirty.  Where'd ya get this wicked idear of 75?"

"Wherz Woody?  Woody!   Cohm heahr a minute, would ya?  You had me doin 25 last week."

Woody, another physical therapist, meanders over.  "Yeah, I told you to do 30, as in 3 sets of 10."

Pat shrugged her shoulders and picked off some imaginary lint.  "Well, you see I gotta whole systim figgred ouht.  I gotta have somethin' ta do durhing tha commercials of that awful game, which I still woulda shot that pitchar if I could.  But I do 3 sets of 25 on each side."

"Paht, that's not 75, that's 150 total.  You see?  And you wondah why youz still hearh since Nohvemba."  

"Acutally I started in Octoba.  See?  That's what you know."

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Patriot's Day

We couldn't have asked for a better day.  After spending the morning relaxing over coffee and conversation, J and I finally got out of the house.  I have to say this is an amazing feat!  Typically we talk about what we'd like to do for the weekend, but if we're still in our pj's at 4:00 you can pretty much bet our plans were defeated.  

As our time here in Boston wears down, our interest in playing tourist at home goes dramatically up.  On Saturday we actually made it to the battle in Concord.  In case you didn't know (and really, who does when you aren't from here) the place where the American Revolution began is now a National Park.  Minute Man National Historical Park was a mere 15 minutes away from our house and yes, we just barely got our butts in gear.  Its even more surprising because during our caravan from Indy to New England, J and I would practically salivate every time we saw a sign for a National Park.  Growing up in Utah will do that to a person:  love for the National Parks seems genetically embedded.  

As we briskly walked down battle road I realized I wore the wrong shoes.  I wasn't in stilettos or flip flops, but I wore my standard Dansko clogs when I probably should have worn tennis shoes.  The sound of gun fire drew us closer until we finally found a few tents housing the British soldiers.  There was even a surgeon tent and he seemed to lack business but he wore the costume with gusto including an apron with fake blood on it.  The rangers had us roped off and the crowds were busy.  This particular battle lasted an hour, but we only saw about 30 minutes of it.  The Brits played their part well lining up to be easy targets and then firing their muskets.  And sure enough, the Minute Men in their colonial dress flanked the roads, came from behind, and closed them off.  The cannon fire was very loud and I have to say that gunpowder is not one of my favorite scents.  J informed me that since its illegal to bring firearms into National Parks, our US government paid and provided all of the gunpowder needed for this reenactment.  This was the 113th reenactment.  Apparently there was only one year that was missed and it was during WWI.  

All was good and well until I realized two things:  1)  No one was aiming at the other side but really just shot into the air, and 2)  No one pretended to die or be wounded.  With all of that gunfire one would think a few would play dead.  I watched the crowd filled with families and boy scout troops.  Little ones ran around in tri-cornered hats, like the colonists and had wooden muskets bought at the gift shop.  The muskets were twice the size of the kids pretending to shoot the suckers.  And others who didn't con mom and dad into buying a $22 piece of wood carved to be a gun, they were just using sticks on the ground.  It was disturbing.  Here was a perfectly good opportunity to show why guns are NOT play toys by showing the wounded and the dead, but nothing like that happened.  

As the battle finished and the Brits retreated, the colonists yelled, "Huzzah!" to let us know the show was over.  We wandered back to the British post where the mock soldiers picnicked on potato chips and sandwiches.  We listened to the gruesome tales the surgeon told the kids about how they sawed off legs and fished around for veins with their tools for a bit.  God help me, I can't believe I actually wanted to be a doctor at one point in time.  The drums and piccolo began to signal the troops to assemble and their general announced:

"Great job, soldiers!  You fought bravely.  Now we're going to continue our journey to Boston.  So we're going to get on a bus...um...whatever that is and head to Lexington!  And for those of you who haven't had enough of the battle, we start again at 4:00.  Three cheers to the King!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!"  

Sure enough both sides loaded up on the waiting school buses to head to their next mock battle.  J and I took the opportunity to wander a bit around the historic houses.  One thing that dawned on me is that they never yelled, "The British are coming!"  Its kind of like a well, duh.  EVERYONE was British at that time!  So instead, what they really cried was, "The regulars were coming!"  We read one historic marker about some dimwit house builder named Josiah.  On the eve of Paul Revere's ride he opened the door and somehow, and I really mean SOMEHOW he missed the guy dressed in the red soldiers outfit because he asked if the soldiers were coming.  He got knocked in the head by the soldier (call it Darwinism if you must) and died a few days later.  I try to give him the benefit of the doubt:  it was during the night, but the moon was 3/4 full according to history.  

J and I drove around Concord where we stumbled across Louisa May Alcott's home and other historical sites only to return home exhausted.  So the Mormons pull their handcarts through State Street, the Indy fans camp out on race day near the track with their RV's and cold Bud Light, the Mardi Gras folks drink daiquiris and flash for beads, and here they battle all paid by the US taxpayers where no one dies.    

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Local Traditions

When I was counseling drug addicted teenagers I learned all about 4/20.  Even though I was in a sorority in college I didn't have a clue what this was.  It was anticipated that we would have runaways from the program every year on this day.  Now that I'm living in Boston I realize this day has a different meaning.

Has anyone heard of Patriots day?  Believe it or not, its a real holiday here.  It's analogous to Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Pioneer Day in Utah:  a real regional holiday.  Businesses close to observe this day and over in Lexington there is a reenactment of the Minuteman's rise up against the British at some God awful hour in the morning on Saturday.  I think I may actually struggle out of bed and in true local fashion head over to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and a treat before heading to the battlefield.  J thought of bringing Edgar, but I think gunfire might be a bit scary for him.  

Before I lived here I was vaguely aware that the Boston marathon happened every spring, but I had no idea it was always on Patriots day.  J's dad ran it once in the 80's.  When he helped us move here he called somewhere along the turnpike and said that the marathon began out in Framingham or somewhere.  All I know is it was out in the boonies.  That's a long way to run.  This year I have a friend who is running in the marathon.  I hear it's a blast to find a place on Commonwealth Avenue to cheer on the runners.  Perhaps I'll make it out to cheer her on just like a local.